"No, the story has come to nothing. I have seen the child, and inquired thoroughly into her history, and—"
"Oh, only think," exclaimed Josie, patience failing her—"only think, there came a little girl to the house this morning—not my little beggar girl, because she was ill, and sent this one in her stead—and oh, Leveson, mother saw her and she says it is Vi."
"Vi! Impossible!"
She paused a moment to look at the little figure standing there.
"She says so. She goes on saying it over and over again. She saw the little girl in the passage, and she screamed and fell down as if she were dead. It was so dreadful. And the little girl must have been frightened away, for we found her gone. Mother gave such a shriek that I heard it up in my room—so loud!"
"Poor mother!" murmured Leveson. "She has been heart-broken about that child."
"And we don't know in the least where the little girl lives. Oh, how we have wanted you! Nurse doesn't know what to do, and I was sure that, if we sent, you would be out, so it would not bring you any sooner than you meant to come this evening. Mother has been ill all day—crying and laughing and talking so fast, and calling out, 'It's my Vi—my own little Vi!' She frightens me so. I am glad you have come!" Josie's clinging hands and catching sobs told of the shock she had herself received.
Leveson held her in his arms, kissing the flushed face. "What makes mother think it is Vi, Josie?"
"Oh, her face. Mother says it is just the same as when she was a baby,—not altered in the least."